I enter the doctorate of time. An interpretive opera.
The bellows refract, south of where words have been
called writing, legs up on the table, hands clutched
in a fist. First this spell of something terrible weaving
in its course, then a large mass under the moon's maria.
I put it lightly. To reward that kind of theory weathering
all manner of dislocation. A thing averted. A zone that's
pure paleomagnetism. Magic. Magenta. Foundling.